


Grip

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Age Difference, Cunnilingus, F/M, Just smut, No Angst, No Brooding, POV Female Character, Platonic Voyeur, Reader-Insert, Shower Sex, Size Difference, Smut, fics inspired by ben affleck doing pull ups, that does not end with both of you in the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if you weren't his lover, you would still pay money to watch him exercise. Or shower with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grip

**Author's Note:**

> the second part of "i can't decide how i want this bruce wayne smut"
> 
> My horoscope told me to do something I intended to do long/wordily short and succinct instead. I tried, and failed. Here, have Bruce Wayne smut that does not involve him worrying about his problems 24/7

He’s so strong that he can easily top you whenever he feels like it, easily throw you beneath him and pin you to the mattress, but he’s so generous with you that he’ll let you climb on top of him whenever you want. You appreciate the opportunity and enjoy it to an obscene extent – the knowledge that you, some working-class nobody, are grinding on top of billionaire Bruce Wayne as he gets obscenely hard underneath you and pants and grits his teeth with the strain of discipline. You cup his throat in your hand, watching it move as he swallows sharply; he is saying your name and you shift to hit a good angle, reveling in how much control he has over himself as he lets you grind the fuck out of him. His hand goes to your breast and he squeezes so hard that you let out a gasp, your brain going muddled and hazy as your hand moves up to his jaw, to his cheek. When you touch his mouth he lazily brings your fingers into it, sucking softly as you buck and twitch on top of him. You know that you can’t last forever like this given how hard he already is, but, God, you _want_ to, you want to know how much he wants you, want him to know how much you need him, but you – Yes, you…

Something makes you open your eyes and you find yourself alone on a sofa and shrouded in darkness, exactly where you were left when you first laid down. Groggily you push yourself up, extracting your hand from up under your shirt and struggling off of the blanket that has twisted and knotted between your legs. It had been wrapped around you when you had first fallen asleep, just an hour ago. You had come over to fuck your lover, but when he had seen the evidence of the long day you’d had at work, he let you rest instead. And now that your first need had been sufficiently met, you very badly want to see to the other one.

You don’t want to finish like this, not when your actual, breathing lover was somewhere nearby. You swing your legs over the side of the sofa and stretch, unreasonably satisfied with your brief sleep despite the fact that such a thing would ordinarily knock you out for a few hours and you’d wake up bleary and confused at ten in the evening. No – you have a goal in mind, and you’re very focused on meeting it.

It doesn’t take you much wandering to find where your lover is. He’s training in his cave, his back turned to you as he lifts weights, and you ruminate on how unfair it is that Bruce Wayne is a billionaire, handsome genius who is also fit as fuck. Surely God should have at least tried to dial him back a bit, but you don’t mind. You wonder if you can sneak up on him, and you try, moving as silently as a cat on soft feet as you approach him carefully. When you’re about a foot away from him, he says abruptly, “Trying to sneak up on me?”

You scowl at your own failure. Your friends and coworkers often complain about how you enjoy surprising them when you’re bored, silently following them and saying their name when they think they’re alone, or popping up unannounced when they let their guard down. But it’s impossible to fool Bruce Wayne and you fold your arms. “I don’t know what would make you think that.”

“Hmm.” He turns to look at you, smiles a little. “I see you’re looking more rested. You here to join me?”

“Sort of,” you say, taking a seat and resting your chin on your hand. “Just pretend I’m not even here.”

You know that it’s impossible to be everything he needs at once; his problems are about as old as you are, and determined as you are to be the whatever he wants, you know that it’s probably too much for one person to handle. Still, you can at least try to be one thing at a time, and right now you’re fine being someone who amuses him, because he laughs when he says, “I think that might be easier said than done.”

“But you can’t just stop! An old man like you should keep up his exercise,” you say hypocritically, as he at his older age is still more in shape than you’ve been in your entire life. 

Yes – you can definitely amuse him. Few can make him smile so often in such a short period of time, anyway, so you must be valuable in that respect. “You’re really interested in sitting and watching this?”

“It’s not like I haven’t already sat and watched as you dressed up in a bat outfit and kicked someone in the neck. This is a lot more aesthetically appealing.”

“Fair enough.”

He humors you and begins doing pull-ups, and you watch in a stupor as he lifts himself up nice and slow, every movement careful and deliberate. You’re amazed; you had managed to do one single pull-up to pass a gym exam, and that was only because you’d jumped off of the box offered so that you could reach the bar, and here your lover is doing so many in a row that you were losing count. The sight of his back muscles moving and rippling is hypnotizing you, and you watch through half-shut eyes, knowing how they feel underneath your wandering hand. Him, moving slowly and deliberately inside of you, making your breath catch as you let your hands stroke all over his body.

Unconsciously you recross your legs and tug at the hem of your shirt. He is pure physical poetry in motion and your gaze slowly moves down his body. For the first time you notice that his pants are undone, for freedom of movement, perhaps. Again it’s involuntary as you lean forward a little, chewing on your bottom lip, trying to get a better look as his body rises and falls. Of course, you’ll let him work without interrupting him, but it’s just so fucking _tempting_ to imagine going over to him and ripping his pants all the way down, and…

“I guess I don’t have to ask if you like what you see,” he teases, breaking you out of your lustful reverie. 

A little embarrassed to be caught, you look away, feeling your cheeks flush a little. You’re his lover, and even you don’t want to disclose everything you’re thinking about. “Way to make the rest of us look bad, Bruce.”

“You? Never.”

You scoff at this outward blasphemy after you’ve been sitting there almost literally worshipping his body. “You know just what to say, don’t you…? No, don’t let me distract you…”

It’s incredible how easily he continues to work with you scrutinizing so closely, and when he’s finished you’re all but a pile of goo. You try not to squirm too much as the heat pools between your legs but fail, and when he looks over at you, you’re wriggling so much in your seat that you resemble a child barred from recess, and you avoid his gaze; he’ll recognize the look in your eye immediately and you want to at least try to not seem like such a complete sap when it came to sex around him. You, after all, had been the one to pursue him so ardently to the point where you were practically cheeking his thigh whenever he sat down. Not like you can actually pretend to be anything _but_ a complete loser, considering you just sat there for fifteen minutes as he worked out.

He approaches you, and you grip your seat as tightly as possible to avoid springing up and burying your face into his neck to breathe in that masculine scent. He tells you, to tease you, “I hope I didn’t bore you too much.”

“Not at all,” you say too quickly to be cool about it. “You should let me in here more often. I could be a great motivator for you.”

“You’re certainly very focused. I don’t think you blinked once the whole time you were in there.”

“God, you…!” Okay, well, you figured that your slack-jawed worship would be at least somewhat obvious. In a fit of youthful vengeance to prove how un-obsessed you are, you announce, “Well, I’ll leave you be. I might go to bed early tonight.”

Immediately you regret your words; you want nothing more than to follow him around like a lovesick puppy and fall at his feet. Not to mention that you are so fucking wired, so ready to pounce on him and fuck the living hell out of him that it’d be impossible for you to fall asleep now. But you’ve already said it and you will look even more pathetic if you take it back. 

Still, that doesn’t stop you from nevertheless following him like a lovesick puppy as he makes his way to the shower. You’ve changed roles again, going from someone to amuse him straight to his girlfriend, someone so pathetically in-too-deep over him that she can hardly think straight. You very nearly step in with him when he turns and asks, barely suppressing a sardonic smirk, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes,” you answer stupidly, another instance of immediate regret; you’re so ready to implode from sexual need that your brain is fried. “I’m – just – going to go over here.”

Pathetic, you wait in the bedroom for roughly eighty seconds before you’ve had enough. You can hear the water running and know he’s in the shower, completely naked, letting the water course down every inch of the muscles you had witnessed in action just moments before. You want to fuck him so much it’s not fair, so unbelievably not fair. You should be concerning yourself with all of his demons and issues and needs and all you want is to just fuck the life out of him. Moving from the role of his girlfriend back into the comfortable role of his lover. 

You decide to just swallow your pride, and you enter the bathroom, peeking at him through the shower doors. He’s heard you enter and opens the shower door a little, giving you a lopsided smile. “Changed your mind?”

You can barely answer as you watch his body through the crack in the door. Really, the most pathetic lover in existence; it’s not like you haven’t seen it countless times already. Ashamed, you answer, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You coming in, or are you going to watch me all night?”

You’re too lustful to even think of some sort of witty comeback and you move forward automatically, stopped only by his gentle touch. He tells you, “You might want to undress first.”

You scoff at your own one track mind and shed your clothes so fast that they might have been greased. He prefers to shower with cold water, the exact thing you expect from a brooding card-carrying Adult, and you wince a little as it touches your bare skin. To humor you he turns the heat up a little, and when he steps back you’re struck by how close you are to him. It shouldn’t be anything special to you but you feel especially vulnerable for some reason, having been assaulted with the constant reminders that he is so far out of your league that he might as well be the star player as you’re the janitor who scrubs the floors. Involuntarily you do a 180 from your previous mood and cross an arm over your breast, wanting the least bit of cover between you even though you’ve been watching him since you’ve woken up.

But he is watching you too, and to him, there is no time to waste. He takes the arm covering your body and pulls it away so that he can lift your hand to his mouth; as you watch in cossetted silence he presses a kiss to each knuckle, each finger, then turns your hand over so that he can kiss your palm. His gaze is pinning you to the floor of the shower and you no longer notice how cool the water is on your skin. You can only notice your heartrate start to increase, heat flushing your cheeks, and you swallow sharply.

“Bruce,” you say, your voice hoarse already. “You’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”

A troubled look passes through his dark eyes, and he averts his gaze from you. “You know that’s not true.”

“I mean it.” Because even with everything he’s experienced in his life, all the darkness that is festering in some deep and hidden part of him, you really do mean every word you say; you feel fortunate to just know him, to just occupy the same space as him, and to be his lover is such a strange and fantastic opportunity that you’re surprised that you hadn’t pinched yourself the entire time you watched him. And even if the gulf of experience between the two of you is too wide to cross, you would be more than happy to flounder just trying to swim across it. “You mean a lot to me, you know.”

He is not used to hearing such soft things and you catch him off-guard, almost making him shy with embarrassment. You take the opportunity to pull your hand back with his still attached, reciprocating in the fashion that he had. The callouses on his palms are rough against your mouth as you absentmindedly press kisses against it before dropping it to your chest, pressing him against your breast. Now his eyes are hazy as his hand almost completely envelops your breast, God, he’s just so _big,_ every part of him. He could crush you in an instant if he wanted to, but you always feel just so goddamn safe with him, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he hunts criminals at night.

He exhales sharply. “You’ve wanted it since you’ve woken up, haven’t you?”

To hear him say it sends a little thrum of pleasure through you, and the heat returns between your legs. “Good guess.”

“I may have had a hunch.”

He stoops to kiss you and, oh, with you the kiss turns greedy and hungry in seconds. You want him to touch you again, all of you, and when you separate you’re almost too breathless to demand it. Fortunately he needs little more provocation, and in a moment he’s down on his knees before you, pressing you back against the wall of the shower and easing your leg up so that your thighs are spread well apart. He’s damn tall even when he’s on his knees and evidently he’s concerned that he won’t reach every part of you otherwise.

The wall is cold against your skin, and you’re thankful for it; you feel ready to burn up, seeing him like that, seeing him beneath you as he presses kisses up above your knee towards the apex of your thighs. You’re teetering almost dangerously and you’re afraid that you’ll lose your balance once he puts his mouth against you, but you know he won’t let you fall, and – well, it’d be the best feeling possible right before you bang your head on the shower floor, or something.

Bruce is not so considered with trivial logistic matters and is right at your upper thigh before you know it. He is working you up almost too much and you worry that you’ll last for only about a second after he touches his tongue to your cunt but, oh, you can’t regret it, can’t possibly regret feeling so good. The wired feeling has returned and every inch of your body is already on edge; already as you wait in anticipation, his mouth against your inner thigh, you’re so aroused that you drip onto his chin. You let out a soft sound of embarrassment but he laughs, Bruce Wayne actually _laughs,_ and the feeling of his breath against your cunt makes you so dizzy that you nearly fall over.

But he’s got you, won’t let you fall, and he holds your hips steady as he moves forward and presses his mouth against your cunt, and you cry out from even this brief contact. Not the thing an elegant and experienced socialite would do, but you are none of those things, so you supposed that you are given some leeway in contrast to his usual lover. His tongue is hot against your already burning core and he is relentless, so fucking _relentless_ right out of the gate as he strokes every part of you. He barely gives you enough time to breathe, to catch your breath, before he touches your clit with his tongue and sends you into a spiraling mess all over again.

You are using one hand to steady yourself and the other goes to take a handful of his hair in your hand, your knuckles white as you try to stay standing. Your thighs, once trembling, are now shaking with both the strain of your position as well as the pure pleasure that he is giving you; does he have to be a goddamn expert at _everything?_ Not even two minutes have gone by and already your moans are so incoherent, so noisy and vulgar that you are glad that you’re not in your own apartment, where the neighbors would be sliding an angry letter underneath your door. 

He may be the one giving you head, but he’s utterly dominating you from below, locking you in his grip as he brings forth whatever reaction he wants from you. As he adjusts himself beneath you, one of his canines scrapes against your clit and your hips buck in response. His gaze flickers to your face and he repeats the action again, drawing forth a strangled hiss from your throat. He seems to be close to laughing and he moves back upward to your clit, pressing a kiss to it before sucking it into his mouth and oh, so gently, so _carefully_ biting it.

All of it is just too much for you and you just shatter, hoarsely crying out his name as you lock up around him. He lets you ride his face as much as you want as your hips move of their own accord, and you grit your teeth and do your best to not fall as your legs beg to give out underneath you. The insecurities of being a lover to such a powerful man just vanish in that moment and you’re his, _his,_ oh, your body belongs to him, _you_ belong to him.

You’re a shaky and shambling mess as you mentally realign yourself, thanking him incoherently as the warm energy dissipates through you. When you come to, you find that he’s separated himself somewhat from you, but your grip remains on his hair; it has moved to his temple, to the patch of silver that you admire so much. There is a look of lazy, prideful masculinity in his eyes as he watches you carefully, knowing that he did this to you, knowing that he’s the only one who can do this to you.

Reality sets in as you remember just how loud you were just a moment ago, and you make a little embarrassed noise as you drop your grip from him and slowly work your way back to a proper standing position. Your legs are still shaking and you can hardly bring yourself up to full height as he does; he takes advantage of your vulnerable and boneless state to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, a reminder of what he just gave you.

He is your lover, and it’s impossible for him to stay collected after giving you such an orgasm. You can feel how hard he is against you, and when you touch him, he inhales sharply. “Bruce,” you say, “Come on – please. You need it.”

You can tell how much he wants to, how much he wants _you,_ but there’s a twinge of reluctance in his gaze; he knows how sensitive you must be right now, and he doesn’t want to push you too far. He worried enough when he first slept with you that he was going to just split you in half, and it had taken all of your begging to prove to him that it wasn’t true. And you’ll be damned if you’re going to make him believe that you can’t take it now, either.

“ _Please,_ ” you say again, never too proud to beg. “I can take it. I promise.”

Even a man as disciplined as Bruce Wayne has a hard time refusing such a request from a needy lover, so he doesn’t. Logistics, however, now become an issue: ordinarily he would take you from behind, hold your hips in his hands as he went into you as hard as he wanted, but you are still not as physically capable as you’d like to be and such a thing might certainly mean you collapsing like an accordion.

You are holding onto his arms for balance, and when he moves to pick you up, your first thought is, _He can’t do that._ But he lifts you into the air as if you weigh nothing at all, and, remembering what you had already witnessed earlier in the evening, you reconsider: _He really can do that._

Because he can, and he is. Your back is against the shower wall again and you hold on tight to him as he presses himself against your cunt and just – _pushes_ inside of you. You grit your teeth and resist crying out, not wanting to concern him, not wanting to think you can’t take it, because you can, you _will,_ and you’ve been wanting this all night. Besides, he had already once concerned himself with the fear that he shouldn’t be doing this to you, that it’s wrong somehow, and you never want to make him feel anything but completely and absolutely right. But he’s just – so big, so _much_ of him to take in that you can hardly stand it, your tight channel taking him in as he fits himself as far as he can go inside of you. 

“Jesus,” he hisses, his eyes losing focus for just a moment. “So fucking _tight._ ”

It’s a treat to hear him swear like this, to lose some of his discipline when he’s inside of you. You close your eyes a little at the strain of taking him, but, oh, it only takes you a moment to adjust and you’re back to worshipping him again, your nails feebly scratching his back as he takes you with the same steady, deliberate pace you had witnessed earlier. It occurs to you that he must have also been wired as soon as you joined him and it will not take him long at all to find his own climax. His fingers are digging into your skin and he’s saying your name, saying it in a way even you have rarely heard before, as if your feelings are reciprocated and you’re the only person in the world for him, too.

You’re so wrapped up in him that it doesn’t bother you at all when the thrusts get rough, get deep. He needs to come, and as his lover, you want to help him accomplish that however possible. You pull his hair a little and say his name again, desperate to help him reach the same climax that he gave you, and he arches his back at your touch, at the sound of his name on your tongue. He is pulsing inside of you, obscenely hard, and you know how close he must be to coming, to giving you his release.

“Bruce,” you cry, tugging at his hair again. “Come – please – I want you to _come._ ”

The request is almost too much for him to take, oh, he’s almost there. You bury your face into his neck and bite down gently into the soft junction of his shoulder and his neck, and at the sensation of your teeth against his skin he loses it, absolutely fucking loses it. With a hoarse cry he pushes inside of you as deep as you can physically take it, and you do, oh, you just fucking _take_ it. He’s buried inside of you when he bursts, a release so hard and so satisfying that you can hardly take it all in. You are sure that you are telling him that you love him, that you need him, because you have been known to be carried away by such things; but of course you mean it, of _course,_ never more than when he presses his forehead against yours to regain the self-control he’s lost while fucking you.

Even he is shaking and he has to put you down, has to take his turn with physical and mental realignments. When he pulls out of you, you can’t help but feel just a little disappointed at the loss of him, how badly you want him to stay inside of you. He is breathing hard and so are you; it is your turn to feel selfish pride at the sight of that rare contented look in his expression, telling you that for once he has forgotten about all of his responsibilities for just a moment in order to get off with you. Yes; you may be nobody, but you are a nobody who makes Bruce Wayne come, and it’s his release that is inside of you, so much of it that it is starting to seep out of you and onto your thigh before getting washed away by the stream of the shower.

A pleasant quiet falls between the two of you and you take the time to actually shower with him, servicing the parts you had waxed lyrical about earlier as you push a washcloth over the broad, broad expanse of his back. In turn, you sigh in utter contentment as he washes your hair for you, his fingers massaging your scalp and practically turning you into a puddle at his feet. If there is ever a reason to die on a hill for Bruce Wayne, it is for moments like these.

You’re boneless with relief and pleasure and satisfaction as you slide into bed with him. Perhaps you cannot solve all of his problems, cannot even hope to understand where he comes from and what he’s seen, but such things aren’t so big of concerns when you are holding him in your arms. You are quiet for a moment, though you are sure he knows that you are on the verge of asking him something.

“Hey, Bruce?”

“Yes?”

You don’t know it, but he is assuming that you are about to say something sentimental, something appropriate to your youthful lack of pretense. Instead you say: “You’ll let me watch you work out again, right?”

You were definitely his lover a moment ago, but it is very clear what you are in this moment: yes, you are still absolutely someone who amuses him.


End file.
